A Series of Things: The Bathroom Scale

It’s the only scale I’ve ever had, the only one I’ve trusted. My parents probably got it before I was born. It is yellow, rusty, hideous. The vinyl top is peeling around the edges.

Counselor, it’s called. “Not legal for trade,” it reads, in small print. “Made in the U.S.A.”

When I was a teenager, I mounted it three, four, five times a day. Back then, I had to take it out of the carpeted bathroom, into the wood-floor hallway to get an accurate reading. The carpet subtracted pounds. I needed to know the truth.

Now, we don’t get together for months. I mean, I usually know what’s going on—I can feel it. If I need reassurance, or a lecture, I visit. It lives in the dark recesses of my bedroom closet, where I need to dig it out.

That baby can go to 260 in seconds, and on my good days, I push it halfway there.